A Most Unsuitable Pastime for a Lady
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: Sherlock Holmes hadn't believed in any higher power since he was a small boy. Or so he thought. Until the morning he and Molly Hooper found themselves reunited in a manner much like the way they first met, eight years earlier - standing over a corpse at a crime scene.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So as soon as I saw the preview clip for the Christmas Special, the plot bunnies started attacking me.

In the preview, we see that Archie's living at Baker Street. It reminded me of a post about how much Archie looks like the perfect mix of Sherlock and Molly. But it can't be that simple, because in the clip Archie calls Sherlock "Mr Holmes".

This story is dedicated to all my lovely fellow Sherlollians over on Tumblr. You are all so encouraging and if you hadn't all jumped on the first few scenes from this piece I posted on my blog, I never would have had the guts to give Victorian Parent!Lock a go!

* * *

 **A Most Unsuitable Pastime for a Lady**

Sherlock Holmes hadn't believed in any higher power since he was a small boy. Fate and coincidence were most people's lazy solutions to odd occurrences in their lives they didn't have the capacity to examine or understand. There was no orchestrator behind the scenes, no deity manoeuvring people to do his bidding, no grand plan. Or so he thought. Until the morning he and Molly Hooper found themselves reunited in a manner much like the way they first met, eight years earlier - standing over a corpse at a crime scene.

* * *

 **February 1878**

After graduating from university with first class honours in chemistry, Sherlock soon found himself on the wrong side of his doctoral supervisors when he dared to criticise not only their methodologies and their findings, but their audacity, as he saw it, to claim to be experts in biochemistry when he already knew more about the field than they ever would. More than that, they weren't even aware of the recent work of M.L. Hooper, whose articles Sherlock had found scattered throughout recent Journals of Chemistry, Biology and Pathology. Their ignorance about Hooper's work infuriated him, leading him to call them names much worse than "ignoramus" and "academic reprobates".

As a result, within just three days, Sherlock found himself with his candidature cancelled, his office emptied and his on-campus flat leased out to another tenant. With all doors in Cambridge shut to him, he headed for London without knowing what he would do once he arrived.

With no set plan, and no academic challenge to keep his brain occupied, Sherlock's opium use, which had only been occasional when he was a student, spun out into a daily habit. With his days thus spent lounging about his Montague Street flat in a state of delirium, he soon found himself living nocturnally. Most days he would wake as the sun set and spend the evenings stalking the streets.

He didn't mean to become a detective. Of course, there had been that one case he'd solved during his summer break in second year, but his deep seeded misanthrope kept him from seeking out other occasions to help those in need. But walking the streets of London's seedy underbelly gave him more than a few chances to stumble upon a dead body – or two – or twelve. Whenever he'd find them, he's stop, studying them, looking for anything that might answer how or why the poor soul had met their demise. In his analysis, he found more and more that the analysis and findings he had been gleaning from M.L. Hooper's articles was invaluable to his process.

And so night after night, he'd go hunting for bodies.

And that's when he first saw her, although she was doing her darndest not to appear as a "her" at the time. There was a crime scene on the bank of the Thames near the Tower of London. Inspector Gregson was running the investigation, which meant that Sherlock couldn't get anywhere near as close as he would have liked. From the way the young man next to him was darting to and fro, Sherlock could tell he wasn't happy with his lack of access either.

As Sherlock turned to consider the young man, and why he would be so intrigued by a bloated corpse fished from the river, he noticed something which no one else would have – a slight convex shape around the pectoral area. Although he had made an impressive attempt to bind them with several layers of bandages, Sherlock could tell that this supposed young man had a pair of somewhat modest breasts.

He was no young man at all.

In that moment, the corpse was nowhere near as interesting to him as this new puzzle. He needed to know who was this girl – and why was she so interested in dead bodies that she felt compelled to risk her life and virtue?

He began studying her, reading her for clues just like he read crime scenes. Her hair was hidden under a young boy's cap, and her slacks, shirt and vest had certainly been stolen from her younger brother. Large brown eyes surveyed the scene, and flicked up quickly, catching Sherlock's quizzical stare.

Without wanting to draw attention to herself, the young woman turned away, taking a few steps and joining the back of a group of lads on their way home from the pub.

Anyone else would have lost her in the group. But he wasn't anybody.

For over an hour he stalked her through the streets, keeping a safe distance so as not to make his presence known. At no point did she turn around or show any other sign that she knew she was being watched. Sherlock congratulated himself on his finely-honed skills. A congratulation that was short-lived when he turned a corner only to find himself alone, with the young woman nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock doubled-back, checking side-streets and alleyways to no avail. He was almost about to give up and hail himself a handsome cab when a brass plaque on a nearby townhouse caught his eye.

Hooper.

His brother had always told him that the universe was never so lazy as to conjure a random coincidence.

If this young lady was interested in the dead, then perhaps she knew M.L. Hooper. A servant? A nanny? Maybe his daughter?

Sherlock grinned, glad that his case hadn't become such a dead end. He headed back to his Montague Street flat, forming a plan as he walked, with more of a spring in his step than he'd had in months.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the encouraging feedback about this story! Here's another chapter. It's a short one, but I'm attempting to update this fic regularly - we'll see how long that lasts!

* * *

 **Eight Years Later: December 1886**

Doctor John Watson had accepted long ago that his dear friend Sherlock Holmes was destined to remain an enigma to him. Despite living with him for several years, counting him as his only friend in the world, and knowing the reverse was certainly true for Holmes as well, there were still large parts of the man's life which he had never deigned to share.

Such was the case when the doorbell rang early one morning at the flat in which Watson had been living with his newly pregnant wife for only a few weeks.

"Watson, we have a case," was Holmes' attempt at a greeting.

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mary called from the dining room where their housemaid had just laid out breakfast.

Sherlock waved vaguely in her direction, before turning to John, eyes wide. "So, ready?" He asked.

"Can I just grab a quick bite?"

"No." Sherlock said while grabbing John's coat and man-handling out the door to where the handsome cab was waiting.

Once settled in the carriage, John waited a moment for an explanation. When one was clearly not forthcoming, John sighed, then asked.

"So, what's so important you have me halfway out the door at half seven in the morning?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment. "I already told you, we have a case."

"Any details?"

"None."

"So why are you in such a dreadful rush?"

Sherlock smiled with closed lips. Watson couldn't be certain, but there was something different in his expression, something he'd never seen before. It was almost wistful.

Whatever this case was, Watson knew there would be more going on than a mere corpse and a question of whodunit.

* * *

 **February 1878**

The truth of the matter was, the last time Sherlock Holmes had been so intrigued was over eight years ago – but then it wasn't a case that piqued his interest, it was a woman. And what intrigued him so much was that she was a woman, dressed as a young man, intently studying a crime scene.

Although he was pleased that he had deduced her gender beneath a very impressive disguise, there was so much about her which remained mysterious. So intrigued was he that he decided, for the first time in months, to forego his opium dose the next morning in order to maintain the mental acuity necessary to analyse all of the available facts.

Sherlock lay on the couch in his cramped Montague Street flat, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to recall every detail of the night before. However, without the effects of opium to calm his crowded mind, his thoughts tended towards chaotic impressions rather than clear recreations of memories.

He stood, pacing as much as he could in a room he could almost touch both walls of at the same time. If he was going to solve this puzzle, he would need to focus. Running his hands roughly through his hair, he tried to recall any and every memory stratagem he had read about – and one particular technique struck him as worth a try.

Ancient Romans would recall facts by tying them to physical locations in their memory. If he could do the same, maybe he would be able to create enough space to focus on the task at hand.

Sherlock lay back down on the couch. Closing his eyes, he pictured his parents' cottage in the Cotswolds. He imagined himself walking through each room – but instead of furniture, each room was filled with whatever random thought was cluttering up his mind.

In the boot room, he placed all of the hypothesis and theorems he had hoped to test in his doctoral work. No need for them right now. In the kitchen, the heart of the home, he stored all impressions of childhood and memories of family members departed. He couldn't help placing a special blanket for Redbeard to rest on under the table. In the lounge room, he deposited all knowledge about his recreational habits – seven percent solutions, where to acquire narcotics, and from whom, and how best to administer the dosages when he felt it was so required.

On and on he went, until it soon became clear that his parents' house wasn't large enough for such a process. Each room was overflowing. If he was going to continue to use this technique, a mind house wouldn't be large enough; He'd need a mind palace.

Once everything was stored away, he felt calm for the first time in years, more relaxed than the dreamy-weightlessness of opium provided. He wondered if this was what peacefulness felt like.

But there was one more thing he needed to do. Closing his eyes, he imagined a new space, a small room, built on to the side of the house. She was there.

He stood next to her, staring at her with much more focus than he ever could have the night before. He could see wisps of auburn hair hidden away under a pageboy's cap. He watched her wide brown eyes, surveying the crime scene. He saw her lips, muttering something indistinguishable.

As much as he studied her, she remained as much of an enigma as she had the night before.

Certainly, she had some link to Hooper – that much was evident when he saw the sign on her townhouse. But to find out more, he needed more information.

Sherlock jumped up, grabbed his coat and his cap, and headed out without so much as a goodbye to Mrs Turner his landlady.

"When will you be back, Mr Holmes?" She called after him.

"When the mystery is solved!" He called over his shoulder.

He couldn't remember a time he'd ever been so excited about the prospect of getting to know another human being.


	3. Chapter 3

**February 1878**

It took Sherlock less than half an hour to find an unoccupied flat with an unobstructed view of the door into which the mysterious young woman had disappeared less than twelve hours ago. He picked the locks using skills picked up during his time in the more nefarious parts of the city and within moments he was camped out by the window - watching, waiting.

As he surveyed the comings and goings in the street, he found himself revisiting Hooper's articles, thinking about how his findings had changed the way Sherlock looked at the world. In his most recent one, published in an oft-overlooked journal of theoretical chemistry, Hooper had posited that much could be gleaned from analysing a body for trace evidence – small amounts of materials not able to be seen by the naked eye. After reading that article, Sherlock rushed out to acquire a magnifying glass – and now he wouldn't leave home without it stored safely in the pocket of his Inverness cape.

Just last week, Sherlock used the glass to see tiny flecks of ash on the cuff of a dead man's jacket. Sherlock collected a sample and spent an afternoon smoking pipe after pipe until on the sixteenth try he found the matching ash. That ash led him to the store where the man bought his tobacco. That store just happened to be next door to a house of ill-fame. Sherlock observed that the lipstick on the collar of the dead man matched one particular lady who offered services in the establishment. This led Sherlock to deduce that it was the man's wronged wife who stabbed him in a fit of rage.

A whole case, resting on so small a thing, which Sherlock never would have looked for had he not read Hooper's work. He really wanted to meet this man, if only to shake his hand and congratulate him for a job well done.

If Hooper did in fact live in this house, then, wondered Sherlock, what role did the young woman play? Sherlock highly doubted that she was his daughter. No father, no matter how dedicated to science, would send a girl into the streets unescorted to observe crime scenes. Perhaps a servant girl, then. But the question remained, why didn't Hooper just go himself?

There was another possible explanation of the facts, but Sherlock wasn't willing to admit to himself the possibility that his interest in this young woman was piqued as much by her striking deep brown eyes as it was by her incongruous and improper appearance.

There was a chance that his brother was wrong. Maybe the name of Hooper was a mere coincidence. Maybe the universe was just that lazy.

But if that was the case, then Sherlock was fixated than nothing other than a woman. An intriguing woman, but a woman no less. Something he couldn't remember doing since he swore off the fairer sex during his first year at university.

No, he told himself, there was a puzzle here deeper than that, and he wasn't going to rest until it was solved.

The sun had set with no sign of Hooper or the young lady. Sherlock was considering packing up and going home until he saw movement near the servants' entrance. From his distance, he couldn't see anything beyond a dark shape against the white door, but it was enough for him to begin to follow. Whoever it was who had snuck out under cover of darkness and was now making their way across the street and into an alleyway.

Sherlock followed as closely as he could without drawing attention to himself. It was a much colder evening than the night previous, and he could see that whoever he was following was wearing a thick coat.

The figure wove through streets and back streets, alleys and laneways, until stopping right outside Scotland Yard and having what appeared to be a brief conversation with a Detective Inspector Sherlock knew as Lestrade – Grantham or George, he wasn't sure which.

The conversation was brief. The young man, whom Sherlock was certain was in fact the young lady from the night previous, handed Lestrade a note before heading off into the foggy London darkness.

Sherlock had a choice: follow the woman or question the man. She chose the latter.

Sherlock stalked up to Lestrade. "Who was that young man?" Sherlock asked him without so much as a polite greeting.

"Good evening to you too, Holmes," Lestrade smiled although his words were draped in deep irony.

Sherlock ignored him. "That young man. Who was he?"

Lestrade pointed in the vague direction of her route of departure. "Him? I don't know him. Not really. He works for a scientist named Hooper."

Sherlock let out a breath, visibly relieved. It seemed that he was on the right investigative path after all. Perhaps Lestrade could even help him. "Have you met Hooper?" he asked.

Lestrade scrunched his face as if trying to locate a long lost memory. "Years ago. He used to work in the morgue at Saint Bartholomew's."

"Used to?"

"Retired. But he still keeps his hand in, likes to help us out when he can. Bit of a recluse nowadays though. Usually communicates through notes like this one." Lestrade waved the paper at Sherlock.

"What did give you tonight?"

Lestrade looked at him blankly.

Sherlock continued, "On the paper – what did it say?"

Lestrade unfolded the paper and read it, unable to hide the surprise on his face.

"It says, the body found at south bank last night had died at least twelve hours before it was dumped." Sherlock nodded in agreement. He too had seen the telltale red bruising on the man's face where the blood had pooled post-mortem due to gravity. Hooper was right. Sherlock wasn't surprised.

He turned to walk away, but Lestrade called out after him.

"Holmes, there's a postscript here. It says 'a man in a deerstalker and Inverness cape has been following me. Please keep him occupied, or incarcerate him – the choice is yours'."

"So, should I arrest you then, Holmes?" Lestrade laughed.

Ignoring him, Sherlock strode away into the night.

As he headed back to Montague Street, he kept replaying every movement in his head. He couldn't believe she'd spotted him. Sherlock's skills in stalking and following had been well-practiced, ever since he was a boy stalking deer and wild boars on his uncle's farm.

More than her finding him out, was the problem that remained for him – the mystery of this young lady. For a moment he had thought that Lestrade was his best lead at discovering her identity. However, now it was all too clear that not only did Lestrade have no idea who the lady was, he had no idea she was a lady at all.

* * *

 **Eight Years Later: December 1886**

The handsome cab pulled up at a modest townhouse in the West End. John thought he saw Sherlock steeling himself before climbing out, taking a few deep breaths in preparation for something, but John couldn't imagine what would require Holmes to do so.

DI Lestrade was waiting for them at the front door.

"Holmes, Watson," he greeted. The two men nodded and tipped their caps. "This case is a bit of a puzzle, but not the type you'd enjoy, I suspect, Holmes."

"Why is that?" John asked.

"Well, if you ask me, it's a straightforward suicide. The man was found with the straight razor in his hand and deep cuts to the wrist. Now it turns out he was deeply in debt. The poor widow might be destitute."

John took off his hat in a sign of respect, not for the man – he was a coward and a fool to leave his wife that way – but for the poor woman left behind.

Sherlock's face was blank. John had seen it before. He was in his mind palace. Holmes often retreated there to sort and store new information, though John couldn't see what was so difficult for him to process.

"So if it's a suicide, why are we here?" John asked when it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to.

"Well, it's the widow. She requested me by name – although I have no earthly idea how she'd know who I was."

John thought he caught a flash of a smile crossing Sherlock's lips, but for the life of him had no idea what his friend found so amusing.

"But that still doesn't explain why we're here at a routine suicide," John persisted, looking at Holmes to see if he was annoyed to be called into such a mundane situation, one well beneath his considerable range of skills. John was surprised to see that Sherlock, in fact, looked quite the opposite, almost eager to get inside the house.

"Well, she asked for you too, Holmes."

John was surprised, and expected the same from Sherlock. However, his face betrayed no such emotion.

"Can we go inside?" was all Holmes said.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** **Thank you to everyone for comments and and favourites. As promised, some Sherlock/Molly interaction (well, at least in one of the time-frames). Enjoy.**

* * *

 **December 1886**

No matter how prepared she thought she was, Molly couldn't control the powerful, visceral reaction her body had to being in Sherlock's presence once more – despite the horrific circumstances which had brought him to her house that morning.

She was sitting on a dining chair that some charitable young officer had brought up to the second-floor landing where other officers – one detective and two PCs – were congregated. The officers tapped their feet and stalked back and forwards impatiently, obviously unhappy about Lestrade's strict instructions not to enter until after Holmes and Watson have arrived. While they waited, the officers took turns to peer into the washroom where the body of Molly's husband, Tom Jones, remained, untouched, undignified and naked, submerged in the bathtoom tub. The water had taken on the unmistakable colour of blood which had leached from neck and wrist veins opened by a straight razor which now lay discarded on the ground.

The news that the _great_ Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr Watson had been summoned was met by the officers with almost as much incredulity as Inspector Lestrade had shown Molly when she asked him to call on the consulting detective. Lestrade's nose was already out of joint at the fact that Jeanine, Molly's housemaid, had used his name when she arrived at Scotland Yard that morning, under strict instructions not to leave until the Inspector agreed to accompany her back to Molly's townhouse.

When Molly asked to see Sherlock, Lestrade had looked at her with such pity, taking her for an enamoured reader of Dr. Watson's stories from The Strand magazine. Molly bristled, knowing that in her former life he never would have dismissed her so easily. But, then again, he didn't know **her** in her former life at all. The person Lestrade had met was a young man, and Molly wasn't ready to share that part of her past with anyone else just yet.

"Mrs Jones," Lestrade began, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder, "I know you've had a terrible shock, but it's clear to me that your husband has," Lestrade paused, searching for the right phrasing, "caused this grave injury to himself."

Molly shook her head, "With all due respect, Inspector, I do not believe that to be the case, and if you just ask Mr. Holmes to take a look I think you will find-"

Lestrade cut her off with a raised hand signalling her to stop. "I don't know what you've read about Sherlock Holmes, madam, but the brusque and boorish man you've read about has had the benefit of Dr Watson's editorial improvements. Smoothing of his rough edges, if you know what I mean." Lestrade meant to laugh, but stifled it once he looked around and remembered why he was at her house. He leaned in and gave Molly an almost conspiratorial look. "If there's one thing you should know about Sherlock Holmes, it is that he does not take kindly to having his time wasted."

Lestrade patted Molly's hand, but she shook him off. "Well, inspector, if you won't help me get Sherlock Holmes to come and view my husband's dead body, perhaps I'll be better off asking Mycroft."

Lestrade almost choked when he heard the name. "I'm sorry?" he asked, as if to double check he wasn't hearing things.

Molly kept her tone calm. "Mycroft Holmes," she paused for emphasis. "Surely he can get his brother here if you are unwilling or unable."

Lestrade nodded, departed, and within half an hour Sherlock Holmes was bounding up the stairs in search of a crime scene.

When Molly saw the grey green depths of his eyes, there was nothing she could do to stop her heartrate increasing. Neither could she have any control over her breathing, which had also sped up without her permission.

She had worked very hard over the intervening eight years to convince herself that her time with Sherlock Holmes was a mere youthful indiscretion, acts of someone running on emotion, adrenaline and naivety. But seeing him again brought perforce everything she had worked hard to forget, every moment she dared not cherish, every memory she had tried to lock away in the dark recesses of her past.

Meeting his gaze in this context was almost as shocking as the first time she saw him – well, she corrected, the first time she saw him as **herself**.

* * *

 **Eight years earlier: February 1878**

For as long as she could remember, Molly attended the Royal Philharmonic's concerts every Saturday afternoon. As a young girl, her father would take her, and they would mix with all manner of people drawn in by the promise of an afternoon's free entertainment. Years later, Molly would cite these concerts not only as the cornerstone of her cultural education, but also as the foundation for her ability to read people.

While Molly's father closed his eyes and listened to the music, Molly would scan the room, looking at the faces in the crowd. Initially, she would make up little stories for them – hypothetical scenarios about what their mornings had been like or what they were likely to do once the concert had finished. But over time, Molly began to notice details, patterns, telling signs, and soon her hypotheses were transformed into accurate readings of reality.

In all her years mixing with the uncultured masses, Molly never dreamed of a night like this – dressed to the nines, and mixing it with the hoi polloi of London Society at a Philharmonic performance so exclusive that tickets cost more than two weeks' worth of her living expenses.

Thomas Jones was doing his darndest to woo her.

Normally, Molly wouldn't have paid any attention to him. Not that she had anything against him. He may have been an awkward, gangly young man, but he was rather polite and courteous and favoured her with many warm compliments. No, her issue wasn't with him per se, or with men in general, but the institution of marriage itself which, from Molly's point of view, seemed very much akin to a form of unpaid indenture.

And if she were to marry, how could she explain to her husband the fact that she sometimes liked to dress as a young man and visit London's most gruesome crime scenes?

But with her future looking more and more uncertain by the day, Molly considered that she may well have to change her position. So she agreed to accompany Mr Jones that evening.

If she had known who else would be in attendance at the concert, she very well may have opted to stay home. But how could she have known that the man with the deerstalker and the Inverness cape would share with her not only an affinity for corpses, but fine music as well?

When she spotted him across the aisle while the orchestra was in the middle of an intermezzo fugue, her heart leapt into her throat. But it was only for a moment. Her heart recovered when she remembered that although he was unmistakably the man from the other night – although now dressed in top-hat and tails instead of his coat and cap – she was dressed very unlike her other self. When she walked the streets of London her garb was trousers, suspenders and a cap to hide her hair. Tonight, it was a most gorgeous yellow frock borrowed from her wealthy cousin and the long silk gloves her mother had worn on her wedding day.

She was safely disguised as herself.

Or so she thought.

The young man's eyes met hers, silver green on deep brown, and his mouth curved into an unmistakable smirk before he tipped his hat to her in a gesture not meant to show mere politeness, but to remind her of the note she left with Lestrade.

Molly felt like being sick.

She didn't know the feeling was accompanied with a sound until Thomas turned to her, whispering in her ear to ask her what was wrong.

"I just need some air," Molly whispered back before quickly stepping outside and heading towards the ladies powder room.

What could he want? Was he still following her? And if he was, what was his motivation? Did he want to expose her?

Molly was so lost in her thoughts, she wasn't looking where she was going and ran into the tuxedo-clad body of a man much taller than her.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, moving out of his way.

"I'm not," said a deep baritone. Molly was about to chastise him for his rudeness, but one look into his eyes and she knew it was him. Again. Why was he everywhere she turned?

A practiced actor, Molly decided to play her part. She was Molly Hooper, not whomever it was this man believed he had met walking the streets of London.

Molly kept her face blank, regarding him as the stranger he was. "If you'll excuse me," she moved to walk away, making a brisk pace towards the ladies' powder room. Once through the door, Molly breathed a sigh of relief.

But he wasn't giving up so easily, bursting into the room behind her.

It didn't take much to scandalise Molly, but this was beyond the pale. "Whatever do you think you are doing, sir? This is the ladies' room!"

He looked around for a moment before placing a chair up against the doorknob. "The attendant is smoking out the back. No one else is using the facilities. We are alone."

Molly placed a hand on the chair to remove it. "Precisely. Have you no decency?" She asked, using her most practiced tone of shock.

He smiled at that, "and this is coming from a woman who tried to have me arrested for no good reason?"

Molly scoffed, "I have no idea what you are referring to. But, if you would like to be arrested now – all I would need to do is scream."

Her tone was threatening, but he called her bluff. "And if you do, Miss Hooper, what will that nice young gentleman you're with think?"

Molly was shocked, not at his assessment of the situation, but at his other surprising admission. She backed away from him. "You know who I am?" She tried so hard to hide the quiver of fear in her voice.

His face flashed with something like embarrassment, but he quickly covered it when he noticed how pale her skin had gotten.

"Yes," he admitted, "but your secret is safe with me, I assure you." He placed a soft hand on her shoulder, using his other hand to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

Molly began to breathe again. A stranger this man was, and as strange as his behaviour, there was something in his eyes that told her she could believe him. "I don't even know who you are," she said, her voice more breathless than she expected it to be.

"Mr. Holmes, the younger. Sherlock."

Molly's eyes widened. She had head talk of a Sherlock Holmes, but in academic circles. Last she knew he was a student at Cambridge.

"I only ask you one thing," he continued. Molly froze. What could he possibly want? She was all too suddenly aware not only of their close proximity, but of the precariousness of her being trapped alone with him.

Molly took two steps back. "What is that?" she asked cautiously.

"Your father," he said simply, as if that was all the explanation needed.

The skin pricked down her spine, "What about my father?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes, obviously he wasn't a fan of explaining himself. "I want to meet him."

Molly had been rounding towards the door, slowly so as not to be noticed, and was almost in a position to remove the chair and restore her freedom. But she just had to ask. She had to know.

"Why?"

He smirked, slightly embarrassed, "Well, because I'm a fan of ML Hooper's work. I think he's brilliant."

Molly had never heard such high praise.

"Well, I'll just-" Instead of finishing, Molly deftly removed the chair and hit him over the head with it, knocking him to the ground.

Molly walked casually back into the concert hall and took up her seat again next to Thomas.

She didn't see Sherlock Holmes again that evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks again for lovely reviews on the last chapter. Kind feedback and encouragement is what has inspired me to get this next chapter out in (almost!) record time. Thanks again!**

* * *

 **February 1878**

In the five days since he first laid eyes on Miss Hooper, Sherlock had been yelled at, knocked out, and nearly arrested.

He'd never felt so alive!

So distracting was the puzzle with which the young lady presented him that Sherlock hadn't touched neither his stash of opium nor his seven percent solution of cocaine since whole thing began.

She was an exercise in opposites. An interest in the gruesome, yet still holding cultured and cultivated manners; of working middle class origins, yet at ease (at home, even) within the Symphony's upper-class crowd; her young man's disguise fooling everyone she'd ever met (except him, of course), yet in that yellow gown, she looked-

He caught his thoughts just in time. The length of her neck and the colour of her porcelain skin as accentuated by the sweep of the (borrowed, but well-altered) gown were details entirely irrelevant for his purposes.

But for some reason, he couldn't stop himself thinking about them. He couldn't remember the last time a woman's appearance had struck him so. Perhaps, he reminded himself, it was the sharp contrast between her two costumes (neither of which, of course, represented the real Miss Hooper) which caused her dress and her hair and her intoxicating perfume to strike him so.

Of course, her appearance wasn't the only thing that struck him that evening, he remembered, rubbing the large bump which had formed on his head.

Perhaps trapping her in the ladies' powder room wasn't the most ideal way to make her talk to him. But nevertheless, there was no way even he could predict her reaction (overreaction?) to his mere request.

Anyone else might take Miss Hooper's actions as a sign to give up. But Sherlock was never one to be told what to do. She was his only link to ML Hooper. The man had had such an impact on him in the space of only a few (so far as Sherlock saw them) ground-breaking articles. Sherlock wondered just how much more he would learn under the great man's direct tutelage.

That was it, as much as Miss Hooper wasn't a fan of his, Sherlock had no other choice but to peruse her. He just didn't know how to go about it.

He leaned back on his armchair, hands steepled below his chin. How did one go about gaining the attention of a young woman?

"Oh, Idiot!" he chastised himself once the solution presented itself to him. "It's so obvious!" He jumped up in elation. Crossing the room in two steps, he retrieved his coat before sweeping downstairs.

There was only one more thing he needed.

"Mrs Turner," he bellowed, banging on her door.

Slightly perturbed, his housekeeper ducked her head out to see what the fuss was about. "What is it, Mr Holmes?"

"Have you seen my calling cards?"

Her eyes widened in shock. "Why ever would you need them, sir?"

Sherlock grinned wider than he had for as long as he could remember. "Because I'm going calling!"

* * *

Eight Years Later: December 1886

John Watson could barely keep up with his friend as he swept up the stairs to the first-floor landing. It was there a few officers with highly put-out looks on their faces stood alongside the small, pale figure of the woman John guessed was the reason for their attendance that morning. The poor man's widow. The one who had demanded Lestrade to call on Sherlock.

John expected Holmes to continue his brisk pace all the way to the crime scene, which as far as John could see was the family's master bathroom. John couldn't believe his eyes when his friend did something he'd never seen him do in the almost seven years of their acquaintance.

Holmes stopped in the doorway, took one look at the corpse, but didn't head inside. Instead, he turned and headed over to where the poor woman was sitting.

John fought the temptation to stop him. There was a reason Sherlock never interacted with people if such interactions could be avoided. John wondered, if his friend was bereft of tact at the best of times, what on earth would happen in a situation with such frayed and fractured nerves as this one?

But of course, Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a man of surprises. John watched the detective gingerly approach the woman. Instead of the focus and concentration Holmes usually wore at a crime scene, his face was presented in the proper mode for comforting the grieving. Soft, caring, a Holmes unlike one Watson had ever seen.

The woman looked at Holmes, but not with the surprise and shock most people wore when in the presence of the consulting detective for the first time, John noted.

Sherlock crouched down so as to meet her face to face. He gently took her hand before saying, with all conviction, "I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Jones." He paused for a beat before adding, "Truly, I am."

She nodded, closing her eyes in an attempt to stop tears falling.

John wondered if Sherlock had taken classes in social interaction, because from where he stood, the man who had never shown genuine empathy (well, certainly not while there was a crime scene to investigate and a murder to solve) just comforted a grieving widow without any glairing failures in etiquette.

John was certain Mary wouldn't believe him if he told her.

It was only later, when reflecting back on Holmes' odd display, that Watson realised something: Lestrade had never told them the widow's name.

* * *

 **Eight Years Earlier: February 1878**

Sherlock paused before knocking on the front door of the Hooper residence. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. If this were indeed the home of ML Hooper, what was to stop him calling on the man directly? Was there any reason to bring the young Miss Hooper into it at all – especially considering she was not entirely enamoured with Sherlock – if their last few interactions were anything to go by.

But, he remembered, Dr Hooper was a recluse. From all the records Sherlock could find, sometime in the last three years, Hooper quit his medical practice, shifting his focus to research and publication. It was also around that time that friends of the doctor noted that he stopped receiving guests. Sherlock, of course, knew all his, having interviewed several former friends of the Hooper family under the guise of Harold Wentworth – Medical historian. So far as Sherlock could tell, no one had seen Hooper for at least two years.

When faced with these facts, Sherlock had to accept that the odds of Dr Hooper receiving a call from an upstart Cambridge doctoral dropout were slim to none.

No, Miss Hooper was the key, Sherlock thought as he rapped on the door.

The housemaid, a short squat woman whose apron cut in so tightly in the middle her torso formed almost a perfect figure-eight, squinted at his face as she opened the door.

Sherlock wore his most practiced lady-killing smile, the kind that used to get him all the attention he wanted back at uni, back when female attention was his drug of choice – before he realised that opiates came with less nasty side-effects and withdrawal symptoms.

"And who are you then?" barked the unimpressed Scottish voice.

"I'm here to call on Miss Hooper," he said, handing her his card.

She eyed the card for a long moment before taking it. "She's not here." Nothing more. No apology. No promise to convey a message, or even to pass on the card.

"Can you please tell her I called?" he gestured to the card. Taking the hint, the maid turned down the upper right corner.

"Done."

Sherlock should have left, but something in the woman's countenance struck him, and he needed to know what it was.

"Have I done something to offend, madam?" Sherlock asked.

"Och no sir," she said, using her Scots to sound more sincere than she actually was. "It's just the Miss is spoken for. She's soon to be engaged to Mr Jones, so I donna think a wee bohemian like you has got a chance in hell, if you'll forgive me saying so frankly."

Sherlock smiled warmly, hiding shock at the woman's language as well as her pronouncement about Miss Hooper and her intended affianced.

"Please, just let her know I stopped by." He said, walking off.

As he headed back to Montague street, Sherlock brought back all the details he could about the man he had seen accompanying Miss Hooper at the concert the other evening. Tall, thin, slightly too pale. Where Miss Hooper fit in in the crowd despite her upbringing, this man did not seem like someone who had come from money. But to acquire tickets to such an exclusive event, he must have some connections – even Sherlock had to beg his ticket from Mycroft who scoffed at his younger brother's newfound love of high art.

One more detail struck him. Just before she left her seat, Miss Hooper whispered something to the young man, probably begging her leave. Concerned, he touched her arm. For a brief moment, there was a look of revulsion in her eyes. Only brief. Even Sherlock hadn't noticed it at the time.

As he remembered it that, walking the streets of London on the way back from the Hoopers' house, Sherlock was certain of one thing: Miss Hooper would never be Mrs Jones. Not if she had anything to do with it.

* * *

 **A/N: I can't help the random Outlander references sometimes. I was picturing Mrs Fitz for the Hoopers' housekeeper.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Eight Years Later: December 1886**

John Watson followed his friend into the bathroom. It was there they found the corpse of Mr Thomas Jones laying, undignified and naked, submerged in the bath. His skin was white, a stark contrast to the water, tinted pink by the dead man's blood. It didn't take Watson long to find the source: the man's wrists had been sliced open, as had his neck. A straight razor, slicked with a deeper shade of red, lay discarded on the ground.

"I'd say it was definitely a suicide," Watson said with certainty. Lestrade was right, there was no case here for Holmes.

Sherlock, who had been studying the wounds intently, met Watson's eyes for a moment before returning to his work. "Well that's what you're meant to think," he said as he removed his magnifying glass from the inside of his jacket and began looking at something below the dead man's ear.

Undeterred, Watson explained his thinking. "Well the poor man was found in bath. The straight razor is there, on the ground." He gestured, then moved closer to the body. "There are clear cuts to wrist and neck."

Watson stood to look at Holmes in the eyes. "And let's not forget he's got a few money troubles. What else could it be, Holmes?"

Sherlock tucked his magnifying glass away, removed his leather gloves and submerged his hands in the water. Watson watched as his friend used his thumbs to open one of the man's eyelids, and then another. Shaking the blood-tainted water off his hands, Sherlock stalked across the room to dry his hands on a washcloth.

"Holmes?" Watson asked using the tone he always found himself adopting when the detective wasn't responding to his inquiries.

"Those are the facts," he said, glancing at the wall as if he could see through it directly at the tearful visage of the now widowed Mrs Jones, before concluding, "but it's definitely not suicide."

"Oh?" Watson took another look at the body, trying to find the clue that had so eluded him, but seemed so obvious to Holmes. "What is it?"

Sherlock smiled the infuriating smile he reserved for when a case has piqued his interest. "My friend," he began, his tone dripping with condescension, "As ever you are seeing but not perceiving."

"What am I missing?" John didn't mean to raise his voice, but his friend was more than testing his patience.

Sherlock pointed in the general direction of the body, "Thomas Jones is left-handed."

Watson bent over the man's body, taking a look at his hands. "Nonsense! Look at the ink stains - they're on his right hand!" He corrected his friend.

Sherlock looked at Watson with a look he knew all too well. It was the look the detective wore when he was overcome with pity – and sometimes frustration - at the simplicity with which people experienced the world.

"Oh Watson, even if he held a pen with his right hand, the man was naturally left-handed. The schoolmaster's cane can cause one to learn right-handed penmanship, but it cannot rewire the entire brain." John caught a slight gleam in Sherlock's eyes. A memory, perhaps, of his own unpleasant school years.

Sherlock slapped John on the shoulder, "But that's only one part of the puzzle, my friend," he said as he swept out of the room.

John tarried a moment, surveying the scene again for any small details he may have missed. By the time he caught up with Sherlock, his friend was engaged in an intense conversation with the widowed Mrs Jones.

John only overheard part of what they were saying. It seemed as if Mrs Jones was relieved that Holmes had seen a detail on her husband's body that she too had noticed. A detail, Watson had to admit, he was annoyed to have missed, especially considering that he was the only trained medical doctor in the room.

The widow sighed, tension leaving her shoulders. "I'm so glad you could see it, too."

Sherlock nodded, his mouth fixed in a tight frown, a furrow in his brow. "Yes. Your husband was definitely murdered."

Officers rushed past, having obviously gotten clearance from Lestrade to enter the crime scene. The commotion was so loud that John couldn't entirely hear what Mrs Jones said next. And what he did hear didn't make any sense. It sounded as if she said I'm sorry. To Sherlock. But why on earth would she be expressing condolences to him?

* * *

 **Eight Years Earlier: February 1878**

"A young lady left her condolences this morning," said Mrs Turner in way of greeting a few days later.

As she did every day on the stroke of 9am, Sherlock's housekeeper brought a tea tray into his room and laid it on the side table. Usually, he would ignore the woman, rolling over and going back to sleep again until the tea was long cold, but Mrs Turner's announcement had him intrigued. Sherlock grabbed his robe, sprung out of bed, and seized the small, black-bordered envelope from Mrs Turner's hands.

Sherlock turned the envelope over in his hands, studying it so intently he almost didn't hear what she was saying.

"I'm so sorry to hear you've lost someone Mr Holmes. Was it a close friend? Or relative?"

Sherlock opened the envelope to find his own calling card inside, the left-hand corner downturned.

Miss Hooper was sending his as clear a message as possible: any hope of their further acquaintance was dead, buried, gone.

Mrs Turner stopped her movements around the room when she realised Sherlock hadn't responded "Was it someone special, Mr Holmes?"

"No." Sherlock said the word so sharply it almost sounded like an animalistic grunt.

The diminutive woman continued her morning ministrations, opening curtains and shutters, continuing to talk entirely undeterred by Sherlock's tone.

"Well that's a relief. Although, I was almost thankful it was a condolence card the young woman was delivering. For a moment, I thought she was calling on you…"

Mrs Turner paused, her face flushed as if embarrassed to continue her train of thought. Sherlock's piercing gaze silently prompted her to continue.

"Well, I thought it might have been for – social reasons." She almost whispered the last two words, highlighting the euphemism. "But, of course, you don't seem the type, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock rose an eyebrow at that, and took a large sip of tea to stop himself for saying something he ought not to, lest he frighten Mrs Turner off like he had the last four women who had her job. The small Irish woman had a lot of annoying habits, early morning verbosity being chief among them. However, whatever pains she caused him were mitigated by her high tolerance for Sherlock's recreational habits, which was enough to let the rest lie.

Mrs Turner started making the bed, "So, of course, it was a relief when she handed over the envelope and not her calling card." She stopped for a moment, catching herself, "I mean, of course, the reason for the condolence wasn't a relief…"

Sherlock shook his hand to show her he wasn't offended. In that moment, he caught a slight lingering odour from the card – hospital grade formaldehyde.

Intriguing.

Mrs Turner sighed, "All I mean is, it would be entirely unsuitable for a young woman such as this Miss Hooper was to call on an unattached man such as yourself, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock stared at the card and the envelope. Miss Hooper had called on him before 9am, with a card which had been in proximity of formaldehyde for several hours. Miss Hooper had been at a hospital overnight. But which one?

Sherlock stood, gently ushering his housekeeper out of the room.

"But of course, Mrs Turner, I am already attached," he informed her.

Mrs Turner's green eyes went wide.

Sherlock continued, "I'm attached to my work."

He shut the door behind her, but not loudly enough to block out Mrs Turner's final question for the morning.

"What work?"

Sherlock leaned against the closed door, smiling. In her desire to cut him out of her life, Miss Hooper had inadvertently left a clue for him to follow. All he had to do was find the hospital where she had spent the hours prior to delivering his card, and he would not only find the intriguing young woman, but would be very close to finding her elusive father as well.

Sherlock spent the day visiting all of the hospitals in London, enquiring in their morgue departments for any young lads who had been given approval to work the aptly-named graveyard shift.

He left Saint Bartholomew's - the hospital closest to his apartment - to last, and when he received an affirmative response, Sherlock chided himself for being so blind.

It seemed that there was a young man who periodically visited Bart's hospital and performed experiments using Hooper's credentials. The portly, bi-speckled doctor - Samford – confirmed as much.

"When's he next due in the laboratory?" Sherlock asked.

Samford chuckled. "I can't very well give that information away to anyone and everyone, Mr Holmes, it wouldn't be prudent practice."

Sherlock bid his leave from the man who, he considered, was far too cheery for someone who spent all his time with the dead.

As he walked the small stretch of laneway between Bart's hospital and Montague Street, he was, not for the first time, on the verge of giving up on his search for Hooper, when one option came to mind. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother did have connections – if sharing elevenses with half the government cabinet each day could be described as such. Surely a matter so small would be nothing for the minister for health to handle.

Unfortunate as it was, the road to Hooper now lay squarely blocked by the rather large form of Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
